


And We Will Rise Up

by stele3



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: M/M, Post-1x06, Post-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU version of Riggins breaking Street out of the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Will Rise Up

Riggs said, “Tonight,” and Street answered, “Let’s do it.”

 

-o-

 

He’d known Tim Riggins longer than he’d known anyone except his parents: they’d met in Peewee, before Lyla or even Coach. It was hard to imagine a time without Coach, seemed like prehistory, before God; but then Street remembered the sullen, bruised boy who’d shown up at practice one day because his big brother played varsity at the big kids school.

 

Street couldn’t help but smile thinking back to the two of them, when they’d been no bigger than the pads they wore. They hadn’t been friends at first, like night and day, even back then; it’d been his mother, with her concerned eyes, that asked him if he wanted to invite that little blocker over for hot dogs sometime. He hadn’t really wanted to: the little blocker in question shouted a lot and had pushed him once during practice when Street had missed a pass. Always a dutiful son, though, Street had walked right up to scrawny Timmy Riggins at the next practice.

 

Tim had stood with his feet braced against the ground, ready to bolt or tackle, and stared up at Street through his long hair. Street remembered thinking that the kid needed a haircut; some things never changed. “Why do you want me to come over to your house?” the kid had asked suspiciously, already so cautious for such a young age. Expecting a trick, expecting teeth behind the smile.

 

Jason thought about it and shrugged. He didn’t want to lie, but he was old enough to understand Timmy wouldn’t come over if he knew Jason was only asking because Jason’s mom had told him to. “Do you want to or not?”

 

The kid had gnawed his lips, pressed them together. “Yeah,” he said, almost as a question, eyes still searching Jason’s.

 

“Okay.”

 

Timmy had worshipped Jason’s mother immediately; inside _her_ house, the sullenness vanished completely. She brought him food and he stood up straight and still, said “yes, ma’am” and “please,” and tracked her every movement. He followed her into the kitchen to help with the dishes.

 

Jason had been relieved, honestly. He hadn’t wanted to hang out with the kid; there was a NASCAR race on and his daddy said that Earnhardt was making a good run.

 

When Earnhardt crashed his daddy had jumped up, shouting, horror-stricken, his beer falling over and a lamp crashing.

 

Mommy had shouted from the kitchen; Daddy didn’t pay her any mind because on TV they were replaying the crash, the car flipping and flipping through the air like a pinwheel. The announcers thought he must be dead.

 

Then the little tiny man climbed out of the little tiny hunk of twisted metal and waved to the crowd. Jason’s daddy whooped like a monkey and scooped him up, squeezing him. “Mr. Invincible!” he shouted, right in Jason’s ear. “Lookit that! Mr. Intimidator! Boy, they better get a bigger battering ram!”

 

Timmy had stood in the doorway watching them, his eyes wide; panicked fear faded into astonishment.

 

-o-

 

Riggs stood over him awkwardly, staring down through his still-long hair. “Oh, c’mon,” Street said with false bravado. “I won’t break. What’re you gonna do, paralyze me?”

 

Riggs’ face twisted for a second and Street wished that he could move an arm enough to punch himself. Still, Tim bent over him slowly, so careful, and closed his big arms around Street’s waist. Tim’s shoulders were big, so hard to get his stiff, weak arms around, but Street managed.

 

They stayed like that for a second, locked around each other in this strange new way, feeling all the differences.

 

“You ready?” Riggs grunted right in his ear.

 

“Yep,” Street replied, and tightened his grip as Riggs lifted him up.

 

They took off down country roads with Street’s wheelchair in the back of Riggs’ pickup. Right away the day looked brighter, the air smelled sweeter, and Street laughed, not the confined chuckle trapped in a neck brace but a full laugh.

 

“I needed this,” he said to Tim. “Oh, I needed this.”

 

Tim grinned, a flash of teeth beneath his sunglasses, hair whipping across his face.

 

-o-

 

Peewee had turned into JV and they’d developed a rhythm together, a simple byproduct of playing in tandem for so long. Street knew exactly how long to fake a pass before turning to hand off the ball, where Riggs would be; Riggs knew the bobble-step and the way Street would dig in his left heel right before he decided to run the ball himself. Coach – THE coach, by then – had snuffed it out immediately and fashioned a good third of the playbook around the pair of them.

 

They’d gotten good, so damned good that some of the players had cooked up a sign. _Riggins Street_ , on a bright green street sign, like they had a whole block to themselves. Maybe a few of the other players grumbled, but they got games done.

 

Riggins hung the sign in his room. It was just him and his brother by then; Street didn’t like the older boy much, but he was a far better alternative to their father. At least he wouldn’t have Tim showing up outside his window with a bloody nose in the middle of the night.

 

He showed up anyone, sans bloody nose but plenty drunk. “What’re you, crazy?” Street asked in a squeaky voice, yet he still hauled Tim in across the window sill.

 

Tim chuckled and pointed a weaving finger at Street. “Man, you sound like a girl.” His voice had broken a few months ago, plummeting two octaves overnight. It had never cracked once to Street’s knowledge, which only made him more angry.

 

“My _mom_ might wake up,” he said viciously. 

 

It was a low blow and Tim jerked instantly, scrambling up and heading straight back out the window. Of all things in the world, letting Ma’am Street – as he called her – see him drunk registered high on the list of panic buttons.

 

“Oh for Chrissake,” Jason had groaned, and grabbed the back pocket of Tim’s jeans, hauling him back inside.

 

They slept as they always did, back-to-back on the narrow bed, pressed together from shoulders to hips. Riggins always stole the pillow.

 

-o-

 

Tim drove them down by the lake, where Street’s dad kept his fishing boat. Getting down the bank was almost worth the price of admission. “Why don’t you save some of that Jello for the other patients, Street?”

 

“Aw, c’mon. How’re you gonna carry this team if you can’t carry me?”

 

Once out on the boat, though, things drifted silent. Street put his hand over the side and trailed it in the water; it weirded him out a little to feel the cold in certain parts of his hand less than others.

 

It weirded him out a little more when he looked away from the sunlight-ripples to find Riggs drawing aimless designs on his leg. “How long have you been doing that?” Street blurted, his voice loud in the silence.

 

“A while.” Tim’s long fingers paused in their abstract motions, then curled up away from Jason’s skin. He stared at Street’s legs with tight lips.

 

They went back to land and cracked open the case of beers. Well, beers for Tim; soda for Jason, no matter his protests. “I’m not stupid, dude,” Riggins told him with a sharp look. “No alcohol with painkillers.”

 

“ _You’ve_ done it.”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“Why?”

 

“’Cause I’m a fuckup.” _And you’re not_.

 

Which was really what it always came down to, the end of practically every argument between them, the answer to all of Street’s questions and suggestions and prods. _I’m a fuckup, you’re not, that’s how it is_.

 

-o-

 

They’d been out late playing a pickup game of mud football, no pads, a bunch of guys from the team in their shorts and T-shirts sliding around and making jackasses out of themselves. Most of them had been drunk enough to piss lying down and for once Street matched Riggins in that regard. They’d played a big game and won, the last blowout of their JV years before Varsity loomed. Their future rolled out before them like a thundercloud, sparking to earth with the force of their might and they’d played for hours, until they could barely see each other in the darkness and made tackles mostly by sound and feel.

 

Afterwards Tim had hooked his arm over Jason’s shoulders and Jason had slung his arm over Tim’s. They’d weaved their way home like that, laughing to each other with their heads tipped close, caked in mud and shivering with the electricity of their own bodies. They arrived at Riggin’s house through a mutual understanding of drunken minds and crept in the back door with all the stealth of drunken fifteen-year-olds.

 

“Fuuuuuck,” Riggs groaned, dripping muddy water over the already-filthy floor and sink as he leaned close to the mirror and poked his cheekbone.

 

Street stood behind and grinned at him in the mirror. “Aw, did you mess up your pretty face?”

 

Riggs grinned back. They stood for a long moment, grinning at each other’s reflections.

 

“You’re drunk,” Tim announced.

 

“ _You’re_ drunk.” They’d never really grown out of those Peewee boys, not with each other.

 

“ _You’re_ – ” Riggs broke off as he lost his balance and grabbed the sink to right himself. He swayed against the counter, head hung low on his neck.

 

Street stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Riggs’ waist. “C’mon, man, I gotcha. I gotcha. Leeeeet’s take a shower. Yeah.”

 

The actual process of wrestling the much-larger Riggs into the shower took about ten minutes and ended with the two of them lying in the tub tangled up, laughing helplessly. “Shhhhh!” Riggins hushed frantically, exaggerated. “My brother’s not home!”

 

“Then why are you shushing me?”

 

“SHHHHHHHHHH!” Riggins hissed, laying a finger over Jason’s mouth and dissolving into giggles.

 

Street groaned and heaved himself up. “C’mon, dude, up. Let’s get you undressed.”

 

“You gonna – you gonna get me drunk…” Riggins flopped at Street’s ineffectual tugs, but finally began the seemingly arduous process of hauling himself upright. “… and then you’re gonna knock me up and never call.”

 

Jason snorted and switched the water on. It felt blazing hot against his back. “C’mere, dude.”

 

He can’t say exactly when it changed; maybe it happened a lot faster for Riggins than for him and he was just too drunk to notice, or maybe it happened for them both at the same time. He’d like to believe the latter, but the former is probably the truth: for all his crappy grades and learning disabilities, Tim was always scarily smart when it came to people. When Street had glanced up in the middle of unbuttoning Riggs’ jeans, the look in his friend’s eyes had stopped him dead cold.

 

After a few moments of silence Riggs had pushed away from the wall and advanced. Not that there was very far to advance in his tiny shower stall, but Street had gone as far as he could, retreating until his own back had touched cool, slippery tiles. Tim had loomed over him, a big fucking giant of a boy but so completely gentle, so careful when he put his palms flat against the tile on either side of Street, neatly trapping him.

 

They hadn’t kissed or grabbed each other’s dicks or anything gay like that. Just leaned against each other, pressed and moved. Jason felt Tim’s breath against his hair and tilted his mouth upward, breathed fast and hot into the hollow of Tim's throat.

 

Neither of them talked about it and it didn’t happen again for long enough that Jason had almost laid the whole thing to rest. Then Tim had gotten his license and picked Jason up in his pickup. They drove around and around town, down to the lake. Street had caught the sideways glances and the tightness around Tim’s mouth; Tim showed everything in his mouth. So when Riggs parked by the water and put the brake on, Jason had held his breath and plunged under; unbuckled his belt and crawled over.

 

They’d kissed then and Street had no idea if that made them gay or what. He’d felt Tim’s mouth relax against his and didn’t care.

 

-o-

 

The pickup was their thing: Street knew without knowing, without asking, that Tim had never taken Tyra or any of his other “girlfriends” out for a truck-fuck.

 

Tim laid out a blanket in the back and Jason laughed. “Wow. You’re a real gentleman.”

 

Tim scowled and flipped him off, but then sobered. “Will I…” he started, then stopped, his eyes on the wheelchair.

 

Jason swallowed and put his arms out. “Haven’t broke me so far, have you?”

 

How on God’s green earth Tim got him up and over into the truck’s bed, Jason will never know. Strength mixed with mule-headed stubbornness, he’d wager, mixed with love.

 

They’d laid down in the back and stared up at the sky, watched the sun’s veil pull back to reveal stars.

 

“Tim – ”

 

Riggs didn’t let him finish, just rose and pivoted on his hip, balanced above him. So careful and yet not, kissing him in the back of his truck after dragging him out of the rehab clinic. He touched Jason like Lyla or anyone else wouldn’t, asking things of his body that even Street wasn’t sure he could give.

 

“Tim,” he choked, bitter and broken. He lay flat on his back, unable to move more than his arms. He couldn’t grab, couldn’t thread his fingers through long hair, couldn’t grip Tim’s T-shirt. “Tim. They said… in the hospital, they told me that I shouldn’t come.”

 

The steady hands sliding up underneath his shirt paused. Tim cocked his head to one side, his mouth balanced just a few inches above Jason’s. He was and outline against the twilight sky, just a shape whose eyes were hidden in darkness. “Can you feel your balls?”

 

Jason blinked. “No.”

 

“Then you won’t mind if they’re blue,” Riggs announced matter-of-factly, and bent down to mouth Jason’s nipple through his shirt. _That_ he could most definitely feel and Jason’s gasp mingled with his startled, grateful laughter.

 

They went as far as they dared: Tim knew Jason’s body like no one else, better than Lyla. They’d stopped doing this when she'd come along. That had been Tim’s decision: she’d been the first of Jason’s girlfriends that he’d genuinely liked. He’d wanted them both, Jason knew, and wanted them both to be happy, and loved. _I’m the fuckup, you’re not. That’s how it is._ Lyla talked about marriage and Tim nodded from his seat across from them, nodded at Jason like, _See? This right here, this is your future_. Jason hadn’t gotten much vote in the matter, but he’d had the sense not to push it.

 

Still, after an almost two-year absence, Tim didn’t miss a beat. He knew when to touch with fingers or lips, when to pull back, when to stop.

 

When they’d gone as far as they could without risking whatever damage they could do, Tim laid back and undid his own jeans. He tucked his face into Jason’s shoulder and jerked himself off fast and brutal, so hard that Street murmured, “Easy, easy, Tim.”

 

He’d felt Riggs come and felt him break, felt the tears start. Tim crawled over him, face crumpling up, still so careful in the midst of his misery. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry I didn’t – ”

 

Jason hooked his arms over the back of Tim’s neck and pulled him down. Tim came unwillingly, still propped up on his elbows, keeping the weight of his beautiful, strong body off of Jason.

 

“It’s okay, Tim,” Street murmured, his face in Tim’s long hair. “It’s okay.”


End file.
